


Pieces

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 22:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: That’s not a connection he needs to be making. She’s making enough of those for both of them: blood and war and love, the way her gut still twists when he says her name with a smile, the sinking feeling she’d get hearing the sharp staccato of gunfire from a rooftop not quite far enough away.___Mac wakes in the middle of the night to contemplate her various relationships.





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the gap between 1.04 and 1.05 (closer to Valentine's). General spoilers for season 1. Mentions of war, violence, and nightmares.

She still wasn’t used to the nightmares, to the way they shook everything up, upended it, left a room looking like everything had been tossed on its head, like she’d been tossed on her head. She’d never been particularly good at sleeping through the night, but this was different; she didn’t want to. The only thing worse than waking up shaking was the fear of not being able to wake up, of being stuck in the jumble of memories.

Rationally she understood the psychology, the process she had to work through. She understood that this was her mind’s way of trying to process things. She was safe here, she felt safe here now, settled in a way she hadn’t in the past year. She could deal with this now, she had to. It didn’t mean she wanted to.

She presses her foot onto the cold wood floor, sitting up with a shiver, trying to ground herself, set herself back in this reality away from the blasts that had rocked her from her sleep. It’s an empty reality in comparison, a quiet one, that one fact an almost comfort as she takes a couple of steps and realizes it’s darker than it should be, realizes she isn’t where she’d thought she was and she changes directions, heads toward the kitchen that’s where her living room should be. There’s a little more light out here, the glow from the clock on the stove, the light from the fridge when she props the door open. It’s not a light she can rely on, she can’t leave the door ajar so she closes it, heads farther from the bedroom so she can turn a light on.

She switches on the lamp next to the fireplace, bricked over and empty, and finds her blouse on the floor next to the sofa. She retraces her steps, finds her skirt, slips both of them on. Her shoes are askew by the door and she straightens them, takes a seat on the couch and picks up the book she’d been flipping through earlier. It’s boring, dry, out of print and out of date, the information not relevant enough to useful. She tucks it back on the shelf and pulls out another prospect, reads two pages and puts it back.

_Should we talk about Pakistan tomorrow?_ There wasn’t anything to say, not enough to bump the news that kept spilling out of the Middle East but even that wasn’t unusual. There was always more news, more ground than they could cover, more things than she could consider, today, or tomorrow, or— 

She’d meant today she realizes belated checking the time, but she’d already sent the text, shouldn’t have sent the text so she doesn’t amend her statement. She doubts he’ll notice she was up at three AM again. It wasn’t like him to pay much attention to something like that. He either woke up to a half dozen texts from her or he didn’t. She doubted it made much difference to him, a few texts or an email sent an hour or two later from her desk, from the office, while he was still at home eating breakfast.

Even so she shouldn’t; she knows that. She’d emailed him before, when she’d been with Brian, when she’d meant the things she’d said, the things she was realizing, and she doesn’t want him thinking— that’s not a connection he needs to be making. She’s making enough of those for both of them: blood and war and love, the way her gut still twists when he says her name with a smile, the sinking feeling she’d get hearing the sharp staccato of gunfire from a rooftop not quite far enough away.

She hadn’t dreamed about that tonight. Those were the less troubling dreams, the ones she could sleep through and wake from with only a sense of unease, a longing for something she could never quantify. It was never the sounds that haunted her, the words and the tones, the sounds had always bothered her less. The images, the moving pictures, the stark reality of it had been harder to learn to cope with, but it was the smells, the tang of blood, the bitterness of explosives, the flat notes of dirt, that sent her spinning even now.

Her mouth tastes acrid, bile-like, the smell of it creeping up into her sinuses. It’s because of that she knows which memories had woken her, which ones had twisted themselves around in her dream. There was only one afternoon. She hadn’t been in a war zone then, not in a literal sense. That’s why she’d texted him, why she’d thought of them, forgotten for a moment that this wasn’t his place, wasn’t hers, wasn’t anywhere she actually belonged although she still insisted otherwise especially to herself, especially to Will, because she need that, to feel normal, to feel safe, to deal with the trauma and the nightmares and the fact that she was afraid to close her eyes and wake up back there, not in a war zone, but away from him.

If she had learned to live with herself before, she’s not sure she could do it again. She’s not sure she could live with that heartbreak not again, not having seen real heartbreak, not having stood in the middle of it, not having toted around a camera and recorded it all, left him voicemails and emails and begged him to take her away from all of that, away from so many horrible things, the inside of her head, this insipid reality.

It was a lot to ask for from anyone. Too much to ask for from Wade, but he hasn’t figured that out even if she’s beginning to; what was holding them together was the lie she was telling herself, she wasn’t deluded enough not to realize that. She was fine, she was moving on, picking up the pieces and putting them back together, fitting them into the life she wanted to have. Things were falling into place, fitting together, except, the problem was the extra pieces, not her broken heart, she’d dealt with that, the pieces were her and Will, the way she still wondered if his arms would fit back around her the way she remembered, if she could still tuck her face against his chest and feel the way the curve of his shoulder fit against the curve of her nose, the smell of him stronger than any other memory, any other fear.

They were the two pieces, the only two pieces left, but she wasn’t sure if she could put them back together. She wasn’t sure if she could, if she should, if she should even try.


End file.
